


Groomzilla

by theremin



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24489787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theremin/pseuds/theremin
Summary: Tom's wedding to Shiv will be perfect if he can help it.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 71
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter 1

It was a grey and rainy day in NYC. Tom Wambsgans, in the backseat of his car, put his airpods in and searched up "Chapel of Love" on Spotify (Bette Midler version of course, the definitive one). Drops of rain trailed down the car window and he smiled. In less than a month, he'd be a married man.

On the way into the office Charlotte, his wedding planner, called him. They'd been in close contact ever since the beginning of the planning process but lately it had been a daily, sometimes several-times-daily thing. 

_"Did you see the photos of the napkins?"_ she asked.

"I saw."

_"Well, which ones do you like?"_

"I don't like any of them, Charlotte, to be honest with you."

_"Shall I just choose something, then?"_

"NO, Charlotte, GOD. Send me more photos! And stop trying to support local Scottish businesses, I don't want to tear my guests' faces off with ethically sourced burlap, this isn't a fucking PETA shindig, get something from Liberty London or..." Tom trailed off as he saw some guy he vaguely recognized from accounting talking to Greg. No. Not talking. That, madam, was flirting. And Greg had his head all tilted, was leaning a little against the wall, arms crossed loosely, smiling. What. The. Fuck. 

_"Tom?"_ Charlotte said. Accounting Guy touched Greg's elbow.

"I'm going to have to call you back," Tom said and hung up. He grabbed Susie, a junior legal council who was walking by. She flinched.

"Um, mr Wambsgans?"

"Who's that guy? The one with, with the little beard, like a magician, talking to Greg?" 

She looked over. "That's Michael Robinson, he works in accounting."

"Okay, thanks."

"Um, do you think you could let go of my arm, mr Wambsgans? You're kind of hurting me."

"Oh, sorry, jesus, sorry Susie," he let go instantly, held his hands up, smiled apologetically.

"It's okay." She hurried along and Tom retreated into his office. 

What the hell did Greg think this was? Studio 54? _Berghain?_ Nobody wanted to see that shit first thing in the morning. He shot off an e-mail for HR, requesting the immediate termination of Michael Robinson's work contract, then he called Greg in to order an oat latte. He'd just had one on his way in to work, but he suddenly felt like secondsies.

An e-mail from Charlotte arrived with several attachments. He scrolled through the napkin designs and frowned. This was honestly impossible. He had to see the plating layout together, as a whole, before he could make the right decision. Charlotte kept arguing he needed to trust her because she was on the premises and could actually see how things would work. But Tom was only planning on getting married once in his life. He was... well, he was in the prime of his life, but he was 42 and the last out of his friend group to get hitched. Some he knew had been married decades. He had a lot of catching up to do. Shiv was a little younger but not by much. They were going to have to start having kids right away. Basically, he'd waited for this, he'd held out for this, and it was going to be perfect. Perfect! He suddenly had the idea to get Shiv pregnant on their wedding night and had to put his hand on his heart, his mouth falling open a little with awe at his own genius. Obviously they'd have to discuss it, but surely she'd see how amazingly romantic that would be. He wondered if she'd give him her ovulating schedule? God, he should have thought of this before they set a date. He opened Youtube and did a search for "pregnancy massage techniques".

Greg came in with an oat latte in hand and gave it to him. It was lukewarm. 

"Greg, I've been thinking."

"Yeah?"

"I think I need to go to Scotland. This weekend."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, I mean, you know the trouble I've been having with Charlotte."

Greg nodded. Tom had regaled him with a lot of stories about how useless and counterproductive she was, so he was very up to date.

"I just think I need to go over there myself, give everything a final look-over, just make sure everything is just so."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea."

"Great. Get me and Shiv tickets to Edinburgh, organise a driver to Dundee, and get us the most romantic hotel room you can find. Search terms boutique, luxe, romantic getaway. This weekend. Okay, hurry up, go."

Greg nodded and walked off for his office. Tom poured the latte into one of the plants. He looked up and saw Michael Robinson, with a shell shocked look behind his stupid beard, carry a box of his belongings past his office. Off to try to fuck bewildered birch trees on his own time and dime. He smiled, put his airpods back in. He'd just arrived at work and he already felt pretty damn accomplished.

"We're going to the chapel of love," he mumble-sang along, and did a search for "Uptown Funk" so he could put it in "Wedding Playlist part 3: Dance The Night Away!".

* * *

"No, Tom," Shiv said.

"But- but I need you there! I already booked tickets!"

She gave him a stern look. "Don't fucking order me tickets to anywhere without checking with me first."

"I'm- you're right, I'm sorry. I'm sorry Shiv. But don't you want to make sure everything is going to be okay?"

"Of course it's going to be okay," she said. "Charlotte's great. I trust her."

Tom made a face. Shiv had categorically refused to take any part in the wedding planning, had simply hired Charlotte and given her a date and some numbers, and pretty much checked out of the entire process. She'd even let her pick out her dress, had been to one fitting and gone with the first option. The first option!! Tom had tried on eighteen different suits and he still wasn't sure about the one he'd picked. If Tom hadn't taken the reins, it would just be The Charlotte Wedding feat. Tom and Shiv rather than the Shiv Roy & Tom Wambsgans wedding. Shiv caught him sulking.

"She tells me you're driving her up the wall. Let the woman do her job."

"Honeyy," he said. "I just want it to be perfect for us! I want to go!"

She shrugged. "Then go. But I'm not coming. One trip to Scotland this year is enough."

"What, by myself?"

"By yourself," she replied, then grabbed her iPad and sank down on the sofa in a clear 'this conversation has now been terminated' posture.

Tom sat next to her, sighed a little. He'd save the conversation about the wedding night conception for some other night. He got his phone out, found Greg's name in his contacts and started texting.

_Change of plan. You're coming with me instead of Shiv. Make the necessary arrangements._


	2. Chapter 2

Being rich is amazing. It's like being a superhero and a supervillain and a superspy and a supermodel all at once. Tom had always known he was going to be rich, but it wasn't until he met Shiv he realized just how fucking rich he was going to be. He was going to be rich enough to need a code name. 

Basically, if you're important and well known enough, rule number one is you never use your real name when you order tickets, hotel rooms, restaurant bookings. To keep the curious plebes away. It was just... it was just so cool. Kendall's was Clay Bateman. Roman's was Mr Donkey Penis. And Shiv's was Ginger Heir. 

It had been how she was described by the UK gutter press during her ascent to womanhood and her party years, and she said she always liked the sound of it and the slight cleverness of it. Tom wanted her to change it. Because he wanted a code name, and he wanted it to match with Shiv's. She wasn't opposed, but so far she'd shot down all his ideas. 

("What about Michael and Jane Banks?"

"... Wait, I know this one... wait, are those the kids from the Mary Poppins movie?"

"Yes! Cute, right?"

"They were brother and sister! No!")

But it wasn't Ginger Heir sitting bleary-eyed and jetlagged next to him in the car driving out from Edinburgh airport to Dundee, it was Greg. He kept falling asleep, head tilting dangerously backwards and then forwards again. 

"You need to get used to the time difference," Tom told him. "stay awake."

"I'm uhh I'm awake," Greg protested. 

"Have you ever been to Scotland before?" Tom asked.

Greg didn't answer.

"GREG!"

Greg jerked forwards. "I'm awake."

"Have you ever been to Scotland before?"

Greg rubbed his eyes. "Um, not, per se?"

"We should check out the Edinburgh festival for a couple hours before we leave, it's on for a few more days. It's SO cool. I'll show you."

"Thanks," Greg said tiredly. 

When they pulled up to the hotel, Greg stumbled after Tom carrying both of their bags. 

"Wambsgans," Tom said, got his passport out. Greg got his out to. The receptionist was smiling and charming and had one of those Scottish accents you can actually comprehend. Maybe hotel staff were trained to tone it down around tourists. 

"Ooh, I see a slight misspelling of your name here, mister Hirsch," she chirped. "it says G. Heir, haha. I'll just fix that right up." She tapped rapidly into her computer. "And here, is your key! So that's on the third floor. Marco?"

A young curly haired man appeared, took the bags off a grateful Greg, and led them towards the elevator and up three floors and down a hallway and into a largeish hotel room with a nice view, a balcony and a king size double bed. 

"Oh thank god," Greg said, flopped down on it. 

Tom looked around. "Is- is um, this it?"

"Yes sir, this is the honeymoon room, our most romantic room as requested. I hope everything is to your liking."

Tom's eyes darted over to a bottle of champagne in a cooler and a fresh bouquet of red roses in a vase. He winced at the mirror-clad headboard, which reflected his pained expression in a warped way. He then looked down on Greg, already asleep, fully clothed, on the bed. He pinched the root of his nose. "I see. Thanks." 

He tipped Marco a tenner and he disappeared, and then he laid down on the bed next to Greg. "Greg. Greg. Greeeg. Gregg-uh. Greg!"

"Uhhh. What."

"When I asked you to make the necessary arrangements, did you book us a suite or separate hotel rooms?"

"Huh?"

"Or did you just have your own name put on the plane ticket and call it a day?"

"Ummm."

Tom sighed. "You're going to have to go and fix it."

"Later," Greg said in a sort of wheeze, the two syllables coming out on two exhales.

Tom had the notion to kick him out of bed and all the way down to reception like an orangutan-armed soccerball, but then thought better off it. Greg was moderately useless at the best of times, right now he'd get more assistance out of a sack of potatoes with a smiley face drawn on it. Still, it wasn't like he had any intention of doing any dogsbodying himself. Why would he bring his personal assistant halfway across the world if he couldn't personally assist him? He sat up in bed, took his jacket off, and opened the pinterest app on his phone. He needed place card ideas. Next to him, long limbs sprawling, Greg had started snoring lightly.

*

Tom jerked awake. He was still dressed in his shirt and pants, his phone was heavy on his chest and Greg was breathing deeply and evenly next to him. He grabbed his phone, looked at the time. 8AM local. He must have passed out. He rubbed his eyes. He turned his face and looked at Greg. He smelled a little musky, his white neck was long and exposed, he hugged himself with one long arm. He looked very vulnerable. Tom raised a hand gently, then balled it into a fist and punched Greg's shoulder. He jumped, turned back to look at him, affronted.

"What? Tom?"

"We fell asleep, in the room you ordered for me and Shiv, because you forgot to change our booking, you fucking carny."

"I didn't forget to change it," he yawned, stretched his long arms. "I tried." He rested his hands on his stomach, threaded his fingers together, looked at Tom. "It's all booked out. It's august, it's the weekend, there are like three hotels in this whole city that meet all your criteria. So I just left the reservation as it was."

Tom stared. "Why didn't you tell me? You didn't think I'd notice you in bed with me?"

"I thought I'd fix it when I got here, but I was too tired," he said. He blinked. "Dude, I'm starving. Should we grab some breakfast?"

Greg had asked very nicely if they could go outside for breakfast rather than just go in the hotel restaurant and Tom had relented. Tom honestly wasn't a huge fan of Scotland, he found it innately intimidating. It was like Logan Roy in the form of a country. Loganopolis. Even now, walking around in the bright, clear morning, people making their way to school or to work (and some revellers to bed) he felt vaguely threatened.

"There's a Starbucks," he said, pointing, wanting this expedition to be over sooner rather than later. "let's just go in there."

"That's so boring, we have Starbucks back home," Greg protested. "just another block."

They walked a little further and Greg beelined for a nondescript little cafe with a hand written sign outside. Tom frowned at it. Full English for four pounds? That was too cheap to trust. Surely it would come with a side of broken glass and Scottish cum. But Greg had already gone inside, started talking to the guy behind the counter. Tom sighed and walked in after him.

"What do you want?" Greg said, turning to look at him.

"Uh, the, the vegetarian breakfast."

They sat down on dirty white plastic chairs. Tom winced. After minutes they were served sizzlingly greasy potato cakes, eggs over easy, fried mushrooms, buttered toast, beans in cloyingly sweet red sauce, roasted tomato and a bucket's worth of black tea. There were also some very suspicious looking sausages on Greg's plate.

"What kind of meat do you think this is?" he asked, trying a piece.

"American tourist," Tom replied.

Greg stopped chewing.

"I'm joking. I'm joking. Pig rectum and scalp, I'm guessing."

"There's definitely a rectal quality," Greg said, chewing. The rest of the sausages were left on the side of the plate, but they polished off the rest of the very generous breakfast. Tom hadn't realized how hungry he was, he'd almost enjoyed that slop. Greg was smiling all the way through it, it was kind of charming.

"Okay, it's nine thirty, that's late enough," Tom said and called Charlotte.

 _"Hello, Tom,"_ she said when she answered. She sounded tired. Well, this should wake her up.

"Hey Charlotte. Surprise! I'm in Dundee!"

_"You're what?"_

"Yeah, uh, I want to look over everything. Plating arrangements, location, fabrics, gift bags, I want to test the sound system, I want to taste the cakes, I want to-"

_"Tom, I'm in Paris."_

"What? What the fuck? Why?"

_"I'm doing a long weekend with my boyfriend."_

"What? No, you need to come back."

_"With all due respect Tom, I don't think so. It's our two year anniversary."_

"I came all the fucking way from New York!!"

The rest of the conversation was very tense, but Charlotte wouldn't relent. She did however agree to send him details of all the vendors they were using and to let them know he was going to stop by. Tom was a little red faced when the conversation was over. He stared at Greg, who was savoring his tea, a dirty, empty plate in front of him.

"I cannot. Believe. That woman."

"It'll be okay, right?" Greg asked. "I mean, she's going to arrange it all for us, even though she's on her vacation, that's nice of her, right?"

Tom's eyebrows knitted together. "Whose side are you on?"

"I'm- I'm not- I- yours!"

"Now you're awake, what are you going to do about the hotel situation?"

"Um, you stay in the hotel, and I'll find somewhere else for me. I looked online while you were on the phone, there are a few vacancies just a couple of miles away from where you're staying, we can just meet up in the morning, right?"

Tom frowned. "No."

"No?"

"No, we need to stay in the same place, what if I need you?"

"Well um, if you're okay staying in a B&B-"

"No," Tom said definitively. Then he shrugged. "it'll work itself out."

"Uh, I'm pretty sure it won't, Tom?"

Tom's phone dinged with a message and he smiled. "She sent over a few addresses. Get up, we have work to do. First up: floral arrangements."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kendall's code name is an atrocious reference to Bret Easton Ellis characters, and Roman's code name is the one Johnny Depp used to use.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg had rented a car with a driver from the airport, but he'd arranged a rental for Dundee, figuring he could drive the two of them around. He had not, however, accounted for driving on the other side of the road and when they arrived at the florist in one piece he was close to drenched in sweat. Tom probably hadn't helped, yelling out in surprise when a car overtook them and at one point grabbing the wheel from the passenger side.

But they were there, they were okay, and Tom felt pretty good. This trip had been a really good idea. It was all going to come together under his discerning eye.

"Hello, Tom Wambsgans," he introduced himself to the clerk, an attractive woman in her twenties with a lot of makeup on. 

"Ooh mr Wambsgans. Charlotte told us you were coming. My name is Monica." She looked up at Greg and smiled a little quizzically.

"Greg uh, Greg Hirsch," he said, reaching out a big hand. Her eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly as she shook it. 

"Of course! Pleasure. Well um, Charlotte narrowed it down to three choices for you, why don't you come over here and take a look."

Three bouquets were prettily set up, in different color schemes and with different kinds of flowers.

"Now," Monica said. "I want you to think of these as key bouquets, we'd have arrangements like these on the dining table, but also smaller similarly themed bouquets around the location, and we could also do a major arrangement or provide single flowers to go with outfits." 

She cut one orange rose and put it in Greg's shirt pocket. He laughed a little awkwardly and she grinned at them. Tom frowned a little. What the fuck was it with Greg and his game lately? 

"Is there one you like in particular?"

"Not the blue," Tom said. "too... Dem. Uh. I don't know, I'm leaning towards this one, but I don't like the purples, could they be like, maybe brownish or something instead?"

Monica expertly removed the purple flowers and pulled some burgundy and red ones from the other bouquets and put it in their place. 

"That looks great," Greg said.

"Yeah, oh my god," Tom said, hearing his voice go very soft. This really was coming together! "that's - I think we cracked it already, Monica!"

She grinned. "How about we drink to that? I have some very nice pink lemonade! Almost feels like sparkling wine."

"Aha, sounds good!"

She disappeared for a moment and came back with glasses and a glass bottle with fizzy pink liquid, popped it and poured it for them. They clinked. 

"You're very lucky," she said. "I only open this when couples come together. You wouldn't believe how many just let the wo- just let one partner fix absolutely everything practical on their own. I think doing these things together is a good sign of things to come."

"Uhh" Greg said. Tom suddenly noticed the notes on the bouquets said TW/GH WEDDING in type. Jesus. Ginger Heir. Shiv's code name again. Charlotte would of course have gotten strict orders to keep her real name under wraps. Without thinking he put his free hand on the small of Greg's back. 

"We do everything together," Tom said. 

Greg stared at him and Tom's hand formed a claw against his back, dug his fingernails into it as hard as he could. Greg  
squirmed a little.

"Umm yeah," Greg said. "that's uh, that's us."

"Sláinte," Monica said and drank. 

"Air do shlàinte," Greg muttered and drank. Monica beamed at them.

"I'm very impressed, mr Hirsch!"

"Um, my like, my grandpa, is Scottish uh, he used to say it. Like he left the country really young and he hasn't kept a lot of sayings but that's one of them."

"Is that why you're getting married here in Dundee?"

"Yes," Tom said. "it was very important to Greg, and well, anything for my sugar maple."

Greg smiled weirdly, his eyes going very round. 

*

"Okay um," Greg said when they were in the car. "can you like, explain what happened in there? Exactly? Because... it was weird? Tom?"

Tom cleared his throat. "Can we just drive?"

"Um, okay, Tom, but I think I'd-"

"Look, I was embarrassed, okay?"

Greg frowned at him. Tom sighed deeply.

"Shiv hasn't wanted anything to do with the wedding. She's basically happy to just show up and say I do. I mean, it doesn't matter, it doesn't, I mean it's just - it's just a party, really! Ha, ha! But when that flower lady said all that stuff about couples almost never doing this together..." He felt his face fall. He'd really, really wanted to do all these things with her. He'd even made them a joint Pinterest account, but she hadn't logged in yet, she claimed she couldn't remember the password, even though he'd made it 'shivsmajesticass'. "I guess I just wanted to have that experience. That the person I'm marrying cares as much about the day as I do. Even if it's just in the eyes of a Dundee florist."

He regretted saying it all as soon as it was out. When was he ever going to learn to just play it cool? Greg's expression was unreadable. Then he smiled kind of gently. "Think all these stores will have my initials?"

Tom blinked. "Um, probably? Yes?" 

Greg looked positively mischivious. Tom felt himself grin very wide in response. 

"Let's go try some cake."

*

Tom had been very sceptical about the bakery Charlotte had chosen. She promised they had one of the best pastry chefs in Scotland, and he'd shot back something about how could that possibly be any different from being the healthiest man in Chernobyl that had made her hang up on him. He'd visited their clunky website dozens of times (no Instagram! Unbelievable) and gotten more and more convinced they'd have to get something else. He wanted to ask Marcia, he was sure she had a rolodex full of Parisian patissiers, but he didn't want to like, ask her himself, because she tended to look at him like something left by the front door by a cat. And Shiv's response to his hints was just "I trust Charlotte". At least this way he'd have proof they needed to find something better.

"This is nice," Greg whispered, like they were entering a fucking church. It was, admittedly, a far more impressive space than Tom had imagined, with dark oak fittings, gold detail, green satin seating and cakes and pastries behind clean glass. 

"Good day, gents," an elegantly clad employee said. Uniforms? Tom could like that. "how can I help you?"

"Um yes, Wambsgans, did Charlotte Woodrow contact you this morning?"

"Yes, indeed, mister Wambsgans..."

"And this is Greg Hirsch," Tom said.

"Oh," the employee said, tilted his head. "is um- we have your fiancee down as a Ginger Heir - we did think that sounded a wee bit odd-"

"It's a private joke," Tom said.

"Yeah, some of my hair is ginger," Greg said. Tom made a high, choked sound.

"Right. Well, if you'll both follow me."

They were given a tasting menu and... everything was good. 

"Jesus god," Tom said, chewing a mini version of their Bailey's cheesecake with butterscotch sauce. 

"Is it like okay to ask for seconds?" Greg said in a hushed voice. 

"Everything to your liking, gentlemen?" 

Tom racked his brain trying to find fault, but everything was just really fucking nice. He looked at Greg, scraping crumbs out of a cupcake wrapper, cross-eyed. He looked, well, kind of adorable. This was really what he'd wanted, well, no, not fucking cousin Greg there sucking cake crumbs out of paper, but Shiv, like this, all delighted and invested in the days before their wedding. Greg caught him looking and sent a sweet smile back. It could be worse, Tom thought. It could be worse.

"We're gonna need a lot of these hazelnut cupcake things," Greg said.

"Absolutely. Now, this is not part of the original order, but I would like you to try some." He handed over two small squares of fudge on paper plates.

Tom smiled politely. He'd never liked fudge much. Greg ate his immediately, then his eyes almost rolled back in his head. 

"God, Tom, try it."

He did and - it was for sure different than most fudge he'd had. There was no staleness and no cloyingness, just a heroin-like hit of buttery sugar. "Yeah that's - fuck me."

"Made fresh on the premises every day. We do small gift bags of these," the employee said, magicked out a bag of shimmery, burgundy paper that looked like it held about five pieces.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Greg asked.

"It matches the flowers," Tom said, delighted.

*

After the florist and the bakery and the fabric supplier and the whiskey distillery they were both a little beat and retreated to a pub. They ordered two pints and got glasses full and close to overflowing. It didn't take long until they were close to empty. Tom raised his glass and Greg clinked it.

"Thanks for today, man," he said.

Greg shrugged. "No big deal."

"No it IS a big deal," Tom insisted. "you get it! You get it! You get this is important and that I'm not being dramatic or a pain in the ass, right?"

"Sure," Greg said. "you want it to be right."

"Yes, god," Tom said. "thank you."

Then his eyes went very wide. Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" had come on the sound system. 

"I _love_ this song," he said, got his phone out. "this has to go on the wedding playlist!"

"What's like, left?" Greg asked, talking loud over the music.

"We're going to the estate tomorrow," Tom said. "should be interesting."

Greg nodded, downed his drink and walked away and towards where some people had started to dance. Tom watched as he unselfconsciously moved to the music, then he put down his glass and walked after him.


	4. Chapter 4

Tom woke up, and he wished he hadn't. He squeezed his eyes hard together. It felt like somebody were kicking his eyelids from behind. Someone with spiked boots. He whimpered with discomfort, then his hangover suddenly tumbled down on his list of priorities as he realized somebody was breathing into his neck, deep and even. He was sleeping next to someone. Closely. He started sweating with panic. What had he done. What had he done!! Beautiful, faithful Shiv was waiting eagerly for him in NYC and here he was, playing Little Spoon to some Celtic bog witch - he turned around a little, and the relief was so immense it felt like his bones would disintegrate. It was just Greg. He looked around. They were in the hotel room. The champagne on the cooler was empty. There was something hard at the end of the bed. He tilted his head - a not inconsiderable effort - to look. A traffic cone? They brought home a traffic cone. He got his phone out. Two missed calls from Shiv! Oh, god. And it was - it was ten. Fuck, fuck, they were supposed to be at the estate at noon, it would take almost an hour to drive out there. 

With superhuman effort he got out of bed. He looked down on Greg. His face was slack, his hands were tight against his chest, his black hair fanned out on the pillow. Tom whimpered again, then quickly undressed - he was in the clothes from last night, only his shirt was unbuttoned - and walked into the shower. 

The shower made him feel slightly more human and he looked at himself in the mirror when he'd finished, found some CC cream amongst his toiletries and tried lathering it on to approximate a found-in-nature skin color. His fingertips stopped moving when he noticed an angry-looking purple hickey on his neck. What. 

Whaaaaaaat.

He shut his eyes, tried to remember the night before. It came in flashes. Dancing with Greg to Whitney Houston? Oh no. The decision to try out all the pubs in Dundee. "How many can there be," he'd said. Complaining how he couldn't understand how he was so drunk, he'd only had three pints (he'd completely lost count at that point but three seemed like a reasonable number). He tried remembering if he'd been with any women. Had they met anyone? They must have, right? Two dashing American tourists out on the town? Surely the locals would be scrabbling to talk to them. But he couldn't remember. Cold fear grabbed him and he swallowed down to keep from throwing up. He put a towel around his waist, then he used his thumb and forefinger to measure the hickey, held the fingers stiffly out in front of him and gingerly, quietly walked out into the hotel room, where Greg was still passed out. He brought his hand with the finger-measure gesture close to Greg's mouth. It was just a hunch, and he needed to get rid of it. Greg opened his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

Tom froze. "Uhh, just, a fly, a fly was on, your face, but um, it, flew, away."

"I feel pretty bad," Greg said, a whine to his voice. God, now he'd have to deal with this all day. Tom slapped a hand to his neck lest Greg notice, turned away and took the towel off, scrambled for fresh clothes. He had the weirdest feeling Greg was looking at him. But he didn't dare turn around and verify. Probably not. Probably just his imagination. Hangover paranoia. He pulled on boxers, an undershirt and one of his trusty black turtlenecks. He sat down on the bed to pull on black slacks, turned to look. Greg was still on his side, looking at him dozy-eyed. 

"I feel like shit too," Tom said. "but we're gonna be late. Come on, get in the shower. Now."

Greg made a keening noise, turned over on his back, slung his arms up to cover his eyes with his forearms. The movement sent a gust of sweaty, ripe, Greg-smell in Tom's direction and something really, really weird stirred in the pit of his stomach. Disgust? Didn't feel like disgust. Must be disgust. Definitely. 

He reached out and grabbed one of Greg's arms. He was warm. "Now!"

*

Greg begged to go back to the breakfast place from the day before and while Tom would have preferred the hotel restaurant for many reasons, he agreed as he had literally no energy for a superfluous argument, and for some reason the slop tasted even better this time. That pond water brown tea just hit the fucking spot, and Tom felt like he'd maybe solved some grand mystery about British people's food and drink habits. Greg had ordered bacon instead of sausages and they were the gross wobbly kind but he scarfed them down, offered Tom some and for some reason these were actually nice and he ordered some for himself.

The grease, carbs and tea worked together in holy union with some paracetamol and while Tom's hangover was still noticeable, it was manageable. He could fake his way through this day.

The hickey fucking bothered him though. He wanted to ask Greg, but he wasn't sure how. God, he was probably blowing things out of all proportion again. They'd stolen a fucking traffic cone, maybe he'd had a run-in with a vacuum cleaner during the night. Maybe he had an allergic reaction. Maybe he'd been bitten by some horrible European insect. It could be any number of things! He called up Shiv in the car, and just seeing her beautiful face calmed him down a little bit. 

"How are you my scrumptious angel food cake, oh my god I miss you so much," he said and she laughed.

_"It's been two days."_

"You should have come, we've gotten so much done, did you see my photos?"

He'd texted her pictures of the flower arrangements, the fabrics, even the little gift bags of fresh fudge. She hadn't replied.

_"Yeah, yeah, everything looks great."_

"I just, you know, I'm glad you feel that way, but it would have been even better if you were making these decisions with me? You know, I can, um, I can Facetime- I can Facetime you!! While we're at the castle!! Greg can hold you up and you can see-"

She rolled her eyes at his brilliant idea. _"Not this again. Look, I trust Charlotte, I trust you, everything is going to be wonderful."_

"Yeaah," Tom said.

_"Let me tell you about Roman's deranged idea of a wedding present though..."_

*

They reached the castle Charlotte had booked. It was huge, grey, kind of depressing-looking. If they had to do this in Europe, why couldn't they have gone to Germany, somewhere with pretty fairy tale castles with spires and marble and stained glass windows. Fucking... boxy Monty Python castle. It was raining a little, too. Great sign. 

"What's wrong?" Greg asked. 

"I don't know."

"Come on," Greg said, smiled a little. 

An older woman came walking up to them. She had steel grey hair in a short bob, wore a brown blazer and a tweed skirt and what looked like very expensive shoes. "Hello, I'm Greta Dixon, I represent the board of trustees for this castle, good to meet you - which one of you is mister Wambsgans?"

Tom stuck a hand out. "Hi, sorry about the delay, we um, we got a little lost!"

"No worries at all."

"And uh, this is Greg Hirsch."

Greg stuck a large hand out. "I'm the fiancee."

"Oh! Well ah, of course. Um. Yes. Well, let me show you the place."

Greg grabbed Tom's hand and Tom looked up at him with a frown. What was all this? It had been a fun enough act to pull the day before with a bunch of retail people, but Tom was probably going to have to meet this woman again, she wasn't just a supplier. Greg just smiled back. 

It did feel kind of nice, holding his hand. And he felt kind of weirdly sorry for himself so whatever, he and this Greta could probably laugh about it when it was revealed the estate would host the wedding of Tom and Shiv Roy herself. In fact, odds were she'd be impressed at his ability to keep something as amazing as that under wraps. 

"Oh, there is so much to see. If I do rattle on too much about the history of the place, you must stop me."

"I'm sure it's all very fascinating," Greg said.

"I like to think so!" she said. "Gentlemen, where shall we start? Did you know we have an armoury?"

Tom perked up.


	5. Chapter 5

By the end of the tour, Tom had to admit the castle was pretty good, even if it wasn't very romantic-looking. There was more than one form of romance, right? This castle had ghosts. Plural! Five of them! Five ghosts! A viking, a governess, an old man, a child and even a dog ghost. Try finding that in Lynnhurst. And there was an armoury with silent soldiers of iron armour and swords arranged in a big circle on the wall, moody chandeliers, a library, a magnificent hall where they'd dine and another one where they'd dance. Tom's tastes ran a little more towards the classical and the ornate, but ms Dixon's enthusiasm and endless knowledge of the castle's history made him appreciate the rugged charm of the place. And Greg liked it, he was looking around starry-eyed, asked questions, cracked jokes, and every time after he walked over to inspect something or other he came back, slipped his big hand into Tom's and smiled at him.

The last thing ms Dixon showed them sold him. 

"Now, are either of you claustrophobic?" They shook their heads. She walked over to a slightly incongruous looking shelf in one of the big halls. "Now, let's say you feel like you're done with the night or you want a moment to yourselves... this fellow will help you out." There was an ugly wooden sculpture on the shelf, like some kind of faux Nigerian fetish, and she grabbed it by the head and tilted it forwards. The whole shelf swung out like a door and revealed a stone passageway.

"Oh my _god,_ " Tom said. 

"Now, had this been four hundred years ago, we'd have a torch ready to be lit. But as it's not..." she grabbed a flashlight from a ledge and lit it, led them up. Tom walked in front, pulled Greg with him, up several narrow stairs.

"This is so cool," Greg said.

"There's a lever here," she said, flashing to show them, then she pulled it. A door swung open and they were in an elegant, large bedroom. They walked out, and ms Dixon shoved the fake bookshelf which hid the door back in place. "and here, gentlemen, is your bedroom." She showed them the elaborately made mock books, explaining real ones would be too heavy.

"We don't read anyway," Greg said. 

"This concludes the tour. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes," Tom said, and opened his Notes app.

After being reassured on several points and making a note of a few minor changes, ms Dixon took them outside and introduced them to mr Gallagher who was going to shoot the photographs on the day. He walked them around the grounds, told them what shots he usually took, offered to hang around during the reception (which Tom wanted - every moment of that happiest of days should be recorded). He brought them over to a nice scenic spot with a good view of the estate in the background and suggested it for the main family and couple shots.

"I don't know," Tom said. "what if the weather is bad. Do you do Photoshop? I want sun."

"I'll make it look good," he said reassuringly. "sometimes not great natural lighting can make for very atmospheric photos!"

"Hmm," Tom said, unconvinced.

"I can set up a set inside, as well, just to be sure," he said.

"Okay, that sounds- okay."

"Let's do a couple of polaroids, so you can get the gist. Over there."

"Okay," Tom said, grabbed Greg's hand again and pulled him over.

Greg leaned in, whispered. "Um, maybe this isn't such a great idea?"

"You want me to do this alone?" Tom shot back under his breath. What, he was going to get coy now? After pawing at him all day? "You're a stand in. Like a crash test dummy or a science class skeleton. Do your job."

"Why don't you stand a little closer," the photographer directed. Tom leaned his head on Greg's shoulder and Greg looked down on him. There was a flash and a click.

"Are you uncomfortable with having your picture taken?" the photographer asked Greg.

"Uhh, well, that be as it may," Greg babbled.

"Just relax. The main thing we want to convey here is happiness. You're happy, right? You're getting married!"

"Yeah uh" Greg mumbled.

"Well, don't be afraid to show it."

Greg attempted a smile. It looked very fake.

"Better. I have an idea, how about a kiss?"

"Ah what" Tom said, his voice dropping an octave.

"One for the camera, come on guys. Let's loosen up a little."

"Um. Okay. One," Tom said. Greg stared and Tom gave him a look back. 

"Can we have the polaroid after?" Greg asked.

"Sure," the photographer said. 

Greg nodded, then he turned to Tom, put a gentle hand to his face and leaned down, pressed his lips to Tom's. Tom had expected a quick peck but Greg held the kiss, exhaled through his nose, stroked the pad of his thumb in an arc over his cheek, didn't pull away before the photographer said "That's more like it" and stared at him with huge black eyes. 

"Fuck," Tom said weakly, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Why had that been like- good? _Enjoyable?_ He must really, really miss Shiv. It would maybe have felt a little different if Greg had looked away awkwardly, or suppressed a laugh or something, but he was just looking at him all stupid and inscrutable and his eyelashes were so long and maybe Tom should just kiss him again just to make sure this feeling was a total fluke and-

"What do you think?" the photographer said, handing them the nearly developed polaroid. Tom watched it shade itself in, the little snap of himself and Greg, his eyes were closed, he leaned up and in like- like he was Liesl von Trapp with her Nazi boyfriend in the pavilion- he thrust the photo at Greg.

"Great, good, that'll be perfect, but ah, I'm ready to go back now, let's ah."

"Are you happy?" Greg asked when they trudged back to the car.

"What the fuck?" Tom snapped. "I'm ecstatic!"

"I mean- I only meant- about the castle?"

"Oh uh well, that's what I meant too, the castle, it's great. Much as it pains me to admit it, Charlotte did a decent job." He cleared his throat. "Well um, this is our last appointment. Guess this terminates our engagement, a ha ha."

"I guess," Greg said. He stepped into the driver's seat, buckled up, and Tom got in on the passenger side. There was a pause. Greg stared down on his own hands, folded in his lap.

"So, are we going?" Tom asked. "Are you trying to work out which hole the key goes into? Which side of the road to drive on?"

Greg didn't answer. He turned, leaned in, tilted Tom's face up and kissed him hard and crooked.


	6. Chapter 6

Tom heard himself make a very pathetic noise somewhere between a sigh and a moan against Greg's lips, but didn't pull away. He felt Greg's fingers relax a little against his cheek, and Greg's lips parted and the kiss turned softer and deeper. Eventually Greg pulled away, a string of saliva connecting them for a moment, and Tom cleared his throat, sat back in his seat, stared straight ahead. His face felt very warm. Well, that had been pretty good too. Fuck. _Fuck._

"Tom," Greg said in a very soft voice. Tom looked over at him and he was smiling, in that way that made his dimples appear starkly on his face.

"Getting uh, kind of frisky there, aren't you Greg?" He nodded towards the road. "Drive."

There was a silence. "But-"

"I said drive!"

"Alright, alright," Greg said, turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the driveway. Tom started fiddling with the radio, searched through shitty song after shitty song, ended up on some station where people were incomprehensibly discussing something or other, pretended to listen.

"Maybe we should talk," Greg said a little tentatively. "about last night?"

"What?" Tom said, slapped a hand to his neck, where it felt like his hickey was visible through his turtleneck, like a blood stain under infrared lighting, like a parasitic twin bulging through the fabric.

"Like just, what happened-"

"Nothing happened. Nothing happened." Tom frowned. "What happened?"

"Um- are you like, doing a bit or-"

"No!"

"I don't know. Like, we had fun, we made out."

"You assaulted me?" Tom asked in a quivering voice.

"What? No!"

"You got me drunk and took advantage of me?? Oh my god, Greg!"

"No, I- no! You're uh you're the one who kissed me!"

"Tell that to the judge," Tom said.

"What?" Greg's voice had gone high and nervous. "It was- like- jesus, you don't remember anything?"

He did, actually. The horrible conversation jogged murky flashbacks of Greg against a wall, long arms around his neck, Tom saying some bullshit about how he was going to summit mount Hirsch without a sherpa. God, he was a terrible drunk. The worst.

"Did we uh" Tom said. "did we... uh."

"What, sleep together?" Greg asked. "No, you passed out." There was a beat. "On top of me. You're heavy."

Well, thank heaven for small mercies.

"Well ah good," Tom said. "no uh no harm done. We will never speak of this again. You're finding another hotel room tonight. In fact, fuck the hotel, let's go to Edinburgh. We're done here."

"There won't be any vacancies in Edinburgh," Greg said. "and our flight back isn't until tomorrow."

"Yeah well, uh, I'll uh, I'll- wait, no, I won't do shit, this is your job, you can fix it."

Greg huffed, frustrated. They drove in silence for a while.

"Why did you fire Mike?" Greg asked.

"Huh? What? Who the fuck is Mike?"

"Mike from accounting."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't know a Mike. Why would I fire an accountant, you raving lunatic. They're so far below me I'd need a sonar to pick up their names."

"Mike Robinson," Greg pressed. "he told me he got fired and when he asked why they said on your personal request."

Tom went bright red. The stupid magician looking dude who'd come on to Greg earlier that week.

"Close friends, are you?" he asked, pettily.

"No. But we were going to go see a movie that night, and he cancelled because he uh, lost his job and was kind of upset about it?"

Tom shrugged. "He was shoddy. Very late."

"How do you know?"

"I'm the director, okay, I know what happens in my offices!"

"No, because, I just thought it was kind of a weird coincidence, that you fire some guy the same day he asks me out. I mean, I didn't like, think too much about it, but then when you kind of cornered me in that pub and said you were going to teach me Gaelic and then you licked my nose, and I kind of thought, maybe, possibly, there was uh a correlation of kinds?"

"Greg, I'm either going to need you to shut the fuck up or let me off, then drive yourself and this car into the nearest loch."

*

Tom was pointedly giving Greg the silent treatment. Greg had, mercifully, not pressed any kind of issue and did that thing he did some times, where he against all odds and reason did a pretty fucking efficient job as a PA. While Tom went up in the suite, getting his things together, Greg was at reception, cancelling the last night of their stay, arranging for the rental to be picked up at the hotel and transport into Edinburgh. And now they were in the car. Tom was going to go for the passenger side but the red-headed driver had smiled brightly at him in a kind of way that precipitated small talk, flashing cubist teeth, and Tom slammed the door in his face and got in in back instead. Greg looked up at him, and then looked back down into his phone.

"Youse gents enjoy Dundee?" the driver asked.

"Yeah," Greg said. "we had uh, some really nice breakfasts and met a lot of cool people!"

"Hit the pubs?"

"I'm sorry are you getting paid to talk?" Tom snapped. "Either of you?"

Greg sent him a dark look that bordered on insubordination but he felt a little dumb. He decided to call Charlotte. 

_"Everything to your liking, Tom?"_

"Almost everything, yes," he said. "I left your suppliers some specific instructions, so things should be perfect now."

_"I'm very glad to hear it, Tom."_

"Yeah um, so are you back, in the UK?"

_"Not yet, we're coming back tonight. I could do an in person meeting either tonight or tomorrow morning, if there's something you want to go over with me? How long are you in Scotland for?"_

Tom cleared his throat. "Ah, no, it's fine, really, Charlotte. Look, you've uh... you've done a good job. Thank you."

There was a pause. _"You're welcome."_

Tom hung up, felt a little more relaxed. Shiv - lovely, brilliant Shiv - had been right. Charlotte was okay and she'd done a decent job. Not perfect, of course, you needed the personal touch for a wedding to be perfect, but it was going to be now. He was going to have the perfect wedding to the perfect woman and live the perfect life. He glanced over at Greg, who was still swiping all over his phone.

"What are you doing?" he said. He was the bigger man, after all, it was only natural he would be the one to break the uncomfortable silence between them.

"Trying to find us accomodation for tonight."

"In Edinburgh?" the driver cut in. "Thenight? You can forget about that mate. Every hotel will be full up."

"Near the airport is okay," Tom said, generously.

"Mm," Greg said.

"Tell ya what, I might know someone if you're paying?" the driver said.

"We are paying you, yes," Tom said. "to drive."

"In the city centre?" Greg asked. 

"Aye, it's the last week of the festival, right? He's had a pretty big name AirBnB his apartment all this while and that guy went home three days ago. But my mate's still in Spain, won't be back til Wednesday. I could ask him if he'd rent it to you?"

"Does it have two bedrooms?" Greg asked.

"Mate, it has four."

Greg looked at Tom, shrugged. Tom sighed deeply, rolled his eyes. "Fine."

*

To Tom's genuine surprise the apartment was pretty nice. Nothing special at all, but it was spacious and bright with a good view of the city. And it was just for one fucking night. He threw himself down on the bed in the master bedroom, got his phone out, let Greg deal with the annoying driver and the payment and everything else. 

Twenty minutes later he was still on the bed, shoes kicked off, watching some piece of shit movie on his phone. There was a timid knock on the door. "Tom?" Greg's voice asked from the other side.

"What?"

"Um, I thought, I thought I'd go out and uh, check the vibe? Maybe um go to some shows? Do- do you want to come?"

"No," Tom said.

"Okay. Uh, see you later."

Tom looked intently at his phone. He loved Edinburgh during the festival. He'd intended to be a guide to Greg, show him the city, make him a little more worldly. It would have been fun. He bit his lip. Maybe what had happened between them really wasn't as big a deal as he was making it out to be? It was just some- just some horseplay, really. Nothing to mention. In fact, it was so innocent and insignificant, he could, he _could_ mention it to Shiv, and she'd probably just laugh, because that's how much of not a big deal it was. He suddenly threw his phone down, used the flats of his hands to hoist himself up.

"Greg! Greg, wait up!"


	7. Chapter 7

Greg was gawking, looking up and occasionally spinning, with an impressed smile on his face.

"Cool huh?" Tom said.

"Yeah it's like... I don't even know."

Tom nodded. Edinburgh was a beautiful city, and its winding streets and gothic severity took on a kinetic quality during festival season. These were the last few days of the month long shindig, and the mood was palpably tired, but still not quite ready to pack it up, like a night on the town nobody wanted to end even though the sun was about to rise. It was balmy and bright, and there were lots of people in the street. A group of four guys, wheeling along a boombox playing Blue (Da Ba Dee) in a stroller, shoved a flyer at Greg. "Oi, tall cunt. We're the Morning Woodpeckers. Last show tonight. Be there yeah?"

Greg frowned and looked after them as they walked down the street. "Did he just call me, the C word?"

"It's actually very mild here," Tom explained. "it's like saying buddy. Or rascal."

"Rascal?"

"Shiv took me here, um, I guess the second year we were dating?" He got an odd look on his face. "I heard a woman call her baby a cunt. Fondly."

Greg laughed. 

"Anyway ah, she took me to the festival, and um, well, I'd never really been to anything like it? We went to shows all day. Some were... awful. But some were so good."

"How do you find a good one? There's so much choice."

Tom shrugged. "If we had time we could do some research, but I suggest we just go to whatever's closest and hope for the best."

So they saw a play which was hilarious and brilliant, then some standup which was pretty mediocre, and then some standup which was very funny, even if Greg had to endure some altitude jokes from the stage. 

When they got out it was dark, and Tom's face felt tired from laughing. He looked up at Greg, who looked flush, hair out of place, hand playing at his neck. "Oh man."

"It's... uh... it's ten. You wanna go for another show?"

"Yeah, I don't know? Maybe?"

"When is our flight tomorrow?"

"Um... like.. nine."

"Maybe we should think about turning in." Tom made a face, then looked up at Greg. "Or one drink? We could do one drink?"

Greg's smile disappeared like at the flick of a switch. "Think that's a good idea?"

"YES," Tom said, offended. "we went overboard last time. Things got out of hand. We don't talk of it. We'll have one drink. One. It'll be fine. Come on. Friends?"

Greg looked at him for a beat, then nodded. "Okay, Tom. Friends."

They found a pub which wasn't too crowded, got a pair of pints, and Tom started showing Greg the wedding playlists he'd made on his phone.

"P!nk gets a lot of shit," he said. "but she's actually a really deep songwriter? I mean, have you heard Just Like A Pill... my god, Greg."

"Can't say I have."

"I'll play it for you. But it can't go on the playlist, haha, too sad, too real, you know? But Get The Party Started needs to be on there, because that song gets everybody, I believe the word is _lit,_ "

"Monica, hey!" Greg started waving. Tom's eyebrows knotted together, pretty rude of him to just dip out of the conversation like that, and he turned his head to see a young woman who appeared to have applied her makeup with a shovel waving back. What the whole fuck? How did Greg find time to meet women? What was wrong with him? He couldn't lay off for one little weekend?

"Mister Hirsch, mister Wambsgans," she said pleasantly and Tom recognized her and relaxed. It was just the florist. 

"It's Greg, come on, you're not at work," Greg grinned.

"Naw I'm in this fucking hellhole," Monica said. She sounded a little drunk. "every year we say, let's go down the festival, it'll be a laugh, and every year we see a bunch of shite, get scammed and I lose my mates. Have you seen a pair of stupid whores around?"

"Sorry," Greg said.

"How long are you here for?" she asked, pulling up a seat next to them.

"We fly home tomorrow," Tom said. 

"Short trip eh?"

"Yeah we're just here to make sure everything's perfect for, um, the wedding," Greg said, frowning a little, clearly remembering the whole stupid pretend fiance situation. 

"Aww I'm so jealous. I sell flowers to couples all the time and I can't find anycunt to marry me. Can't find anyone I'd want to marry either," she sighed. "men are garbage." Then she cackled a laugh. "Oh, sorry, no offense."

"None taken," Greg said and Tom frowned. He really didn't feel like babysitting a drunk Scottish lady. 

"So how did you guys meet?" Monica asked. "Come on, tell me your secrets."

"Family party," Greg said. Tom snorted.

"We're not related," Tom said. "I was there with his cousin."

Monica grinned. Her teeth were big. "Like, romantically there or-"

"Ah, yes."

"They were engaged, actually," Greg said. "but he still asked me to kiss him. Do you remember that?"

Tom tilted his head. "Yes. I believe that's one of the first things I ever said to you."

"While you were there with his cousin?" Monica cackled. "Oh, you cunt!"

Greg looked a little taken aback.

"Very mild," Tom said to Greg, leaning in a little.

"Did you then? Kiss him?"

"Uhh... no," Greg said, his hand coming up to play with his hair. "but I mean. I wanted to."

"Oh?" Tom said. 

"Yeah, I mean. I thought you were hot. And funny. And kind of weird. But good weird. And nobody's ever come on to me like that before. That strong." He bit his lip, looked straight at Tom. "I think maybe that's kind of why I fell for you, even though I knew it was a really, really bad idea and I'd probably just end up heartbroken if I ever told you."

Tom's mouth fell open a little.

"Aww, but it worked out!" Monica said, oblivious, putting a flat palm over her heart. "You're getting marriiiieed!"

"Uh huh," Greg said, smiled a little awkwardly.

"Monicaaaarrgh," someone roared and Monica turned her head. Two girls came walking up unsteadily. 

"Where were you?"

"Where were _you??_ "

"Christ well you've landed on your feet no?" a skinny redhead said and looked up at Greg with a very big smile. "Bloody hell. Hi there."

"He's taken," Monica said in a resigned tone of voice.

"How taken?" the redhead asked and her blonde friend elbowed her, snorting with laughter.

"Very taken," Tom said, and intertwined his fingers with Greg's. "ladies, it's been a real pleasure, but we've got an early flight in the morning."

The girls made protesting noises but Tom pulled Greg with him out the pub. When they were out on the street Greg gently pulled his hand from Tom's grip. They made their way back to the apartment, and Tom kicked off his shoes and groaned. "Ugh, fucking cobblestones. Can't wait to get out of fucking Charles Dickens... Leprosy... World and back to civilization."

"Well um, guess I'll turn in. I'll wake you at seven," Greg said, leaning against the frame of the doorway to the bedroom he'd chosen, looking a little dishevelled, but in a good way. A very good way. Tom swallowed.

"Great. Thank you. See you in the morning."

Greg nodded, his expression completely unreadable, back to doing the Easter Island statue act, and then he closed the door behind him. Tom went to bed too, and tried not to think about it. Which, of course, is the most surefire way to think of nothing else.


	8. Chapter 8

Tom looked at his phone. It was three in the morning. He hadn't slept a wink. This would not do.

He ripped off his duvet, got up, felt antsy and restless. He walked out of his room, over to Greg's, opened the door. Greg was sleeping on his back, one long arm splayed out, head tilted to the side. He didn't have a shirt on. Tom scratched at his grey T-shirt. Sleeping shirtless in some rando's bed? Ugh. He sat down on the side of the bed.

"Greg. Greg. Greeg. Greg!"

"Um! Huhh?" Greg jerked, peeped up at him with one eye. "Uh? Tom?"

"I'm uh, kind of, having trouble sleeping, do you maybe have some ambien, or some melatonin, or some fucking chamomile, I don't know?"

"What?"

"I can't fucking sleep! Sing me a fucking lullaby!"

"Are you serious?"

"I- I don't know."

Tom put his head in his hands, hunched over. God, it was all a mess. There he was, ostensibly on a short trip to make sure the wedding he'd been waiting for for years would be just as perfect as he'd always dreamed it would be, and here he was, creeping into his fiancee's goofy pipe cleaner cousin's bedroom in the middle of the night, begging for his attention like he'd done from the moment he'd met him. It wasn't _fair._ A large hand gently made its way up his back, petted at his neck. Tom breathed in, a deep breath that filled his chest. He turned, looked at him, and Greg hoisted himself up into a sitting position, leaned forward. Tom leaned forward too and rested his forehead to Greg's and Greg's hand found its way to the back of his neck again.

"It's okay," Greg assured in a low, gentle voice, even though nothing was okay at all. 

Tom tilted his face up and kissed him. Greg sighed a little, parted his lips for him, his long fingers stroking slow lines down the back of his neck, making chills run down the length of his spine. Greg's mouth was a little sour, but his lips were firm and sweet against his, and Tom filled his hand with black hair, thick and tangled. When they pulled apart Greg breathed deep, quivery, and Tom ran a hand down his side, down his long, ridiculous body, to his waist and his hip and realized he was naked. Greg pulled away his covers and Tom wished he'd had a look in the room earlier in the day so he knew where the hell the light switches were, but he was not going to go looking for them now, instead he swung his body onto the bed and over Greg, pushed him down until he was on his back, kissed him again, better this time, deeper. Greg was whimpering a little against him, long arms clutching and sliding around him, and at first Tom was kind of hovering on his knees but then he let himself sink down and he made a weak-sounding moan when his erection knocked into Greg's. Only the fabric of his underwear was between them, and Greg probably had the same idea because suddenly his hands were pulling and grabbing, then Tom's T-shirt was over his head and flung across the room, then he was kicking off his briefs. Greg tilted his face away from him, put a hand to his mouth. Tom realized what Greg was doing and grabbed his wrist, pulled his hand over and started swiping his tongue over his palm, sucked long fingers into his mouth. He suddenly got a vision of himself, middle aged and tired, licking Greg's hand like some kind of horny take on Droopy the Dog, and was grateful for the dark after all.

"Tom," Greg said in an almost reverent half whisper, and it was just too tender to cope with so he kissed him again to shut him up, and Greg snaked his slick hand inbetween them, closed it around both their dicks. Tom made a very undignified sound into Greg's mouth and thrust upwards into Greg's fist, against his dick, his fingers, and Greg kissed him and kissed him while his hand worked erratically until Tom just went "grurg" somewhere in the back of his throat and came. He slumped over Greg, breathing hard where his neck met his shoulder, propped up on his knees, wondered if the polite thing would be to help Greg along or something as his hand still worked hard inbetween them but then Greg gasped and followed. He pulled his hand out from between them, slung it over Tom's back, it felt tacky and warm. 

"You're heavy," Greg said, gently, and Tom rolled off him. Greg shifted, arranged the duvet over both of them, then put his head on Tom's shoulder.

Tom felt gross and sticky but also way too boneless and shattered to do anything about it. For a long while, neither of them said anything at all.

"What are we going to do?" Greg finally asked.

Tom sighed a long sigh. "Well," he said. "as it happens. Shiv kind of... gave me a hall pass."

"Huh?"

"Well ah. She was fairly clear that if something happened with me, and somebody else, she would be an adult about it." When she'd said it, he'd been a little horrified, had to beat down his provincial Minneapolis kneejerk reaction to that kind of New York nonsense. He didn't want her to be an _adult_ about him looking at someone else, _being_ with someone else. He wanted her to be a jealous angry rage ball about it. But maybe it could be good? This thing with Greg... and it _was_ a thing, maybe he could have ignored it before, but now he knew the taste of his mouth and the sound of his name in the shape of a prayer and there was just no coming back from that. He wanted more.

"Okay. So you are proposing, an affair."

"An arrangement!" Tom said, offended. "It's not an affair if it's uh... arranged."

"You'd tell Shiv?"

"God, no. Pretty sure the hall pass wasn't issued with blood relatives in mind. The point is uh, the um paperwork has been processed, right? No um, no taking backsies."

Greg was quiet for a while. "I'm like- yeah. I'm not into that. Uh. Application denied."

"Look, I know it's not ideal," Tom said, reasonably. "but uh, I uh, I think this might be worth exploring, for the both of us, and if we just kept it discreet I could um..."

"Still be with Shiv?"

"That's not what I was going to say," Tom said. "and for the record, I'm not the only jerk here."

"This was probably a mistake," Greg said quietly.

"Oh, you think?"

Greg didn't reply, just crept in a little closer. Tom pressed his lips to the corner of Greg's mouth, brushed fingers through his hair. 

"I wish things were different," Greg said.

"Yeah," Tom said. He sighed. "yeah."


	9. Chapter 9

A chirpy melody started playing, and Greg groaned, reached over Tom, and killed the sound.

"We have to get up," he said tiredly.

"What the fuck? We just went to sleep."

"We'll sleep on the flight," Greg yawned, started getting up, but Tom pulled him back down. He was all warm and dishevelled and he fucking reeked, and so, Tom guessed, did he. He pressed a dry kiss to his long neck and could feel the wave of a sigh come through his throat.

"Stop it, Tom."

"Okay? Your mouth says," he put on a goofy voice, " _stop it Tom_ , but your body says, let's go fuck in the shower." He reached down where Greg's dick was half hard against his thigh. "Jesus CHRIST, Greg. You're the only man I know who needs a Building and Safety permit to get an erection."

Greg giggled.

"Is it hard finding pants with three legs? Wait, _is_ this your leg?"

"No," Greg breathed, thrust up a little in his hand.

"You like that?"

"Uh huh"

"Roll over on your back, I can cover more ground that way, use both hands, maybe a Rube Goldberg machine-"

Greg pulled away, quick, got up. "I think, um, I think we need to get ready and go to the airport."

"Gregor-ee!" Tom said. "Come _on!_ "

Greg shrugged a little apologetically, then walked away, slender and pale and naked, and in a little while Tom could hear water start running. How was that fair? He'd complimented his dick and made him laugh, it had been a while since law school but he was fairly sure that made him legally entitled to a little action. He sighed deep, went off to find the second bathroom. As the warm water washed away the sweat and grime and dirt of the previous day and night Tom thought, what if they delayed coming home by a day or two? Guy who owned the place wasn't due home for another two days. They could hash it out, talk it through. Do some more sightseeing, they could hike Holyrood park, Greg would like that. They could go beyond fumbly adolescent handy jobs. Tom graciously decided he'd let Greg fuck him. Maybe over that sofa near the big window, overlooking Edinburgh. His mouth watered. Greg had pretty much admitted to having feelings for him, last night in the pub, and well, weird and wrong and incomprehensible as it may be, it turned out he may have feelings for Gregory Hirsch in return. It was both depressing and- kind of exciting? He turned the shower off, wrapped a towel around himself.

"Cab's waiting outside," Greg said, dressed and ready and with their packed bags lined up by the door. 

Tom cleared his throat. "I've been thinking-"

"I laid out your stuff for you," Greg said, nodding towards a suit and shirt draped over a chair. "I'll wait downstairs."

He disappeared carrying both their suitcases and Tom grimaced. So much for that.

They had breakfast at the airport, Greg bought shortbread for his mom and whiskey for his granddad. 

"So, what do you make of Scotland?" Tom asked.

"I like it," he nodded. "yeah, it's cool. The people are fun, it's like old and pretty... I think my favorite was the castle, like, the secret passageway? That was awesome."

"Yeah, that kind of sold me on the whole place."

"Shiv will be super impressed."

Tom swallowed, nodded. "Mmm."

On the plane Greg put on the sleeping mask and the complimentary blanket, spread out his long legs (maybe Tom should have made him fly Economy instead of First, since he was being so difficult) and nodded off almost immediately. Tom didn't really feel sleepy anymore, opened the gallery app on his phone and looked through everything. The flowers, the cakes, the gift bags, the fabrics, the different rooms of the castle. He got his Notes app up, edited it with new info. He sighed. He'd loved fiddling with all the wedding details, but right now it just made him feel sad, and for some reason desperately lonely. He wished Shiv would have come on the trip. He wished Shiv gave a fuck about flower arrangements and place cards and cake fillings. Most of all, he wished it was her opposite him in the coupe, so he wouldn't have to look at that- that- Wikipedia entry on Marfan syndrome- that psychedelic Italian cartoon- that five minute old giraffe- and feel- and feel-  
Tom huffed, fumbled to locate the complimentary headset, and started scrolling through the available movies. Anything, literally anything would do. His finger stopped at Little Women. He shook his head, swiped on. He was enough of an emotional wreck as it was.

The flight was long and dull and Tom felt exhausted when they arrived. Greg, who had spent most of it asleep, looked pretty perky, hailed them a cab and looked around, looked pleased to be back in New York. Tom forgot it was still new to him. They pulled up to Tom's building and he got out. 

"Uh, could you wait here for me? Thanks man," Greg said to the driver, got out, got Tom's suitcase.

"You don't have to carry my suitcase up, it's fine," Tom said.

"I don't mind," Greg said. 

"Fine, suit yourself."

Tom said hi to the doorman, plastered on a big smile. They got in the elevator and Tom pressed the button. The doors shut and then Greg leaned down, tilted Tom's face up with a big hand and pressed his lips to Tom's, with the same unexpected quivering intensity as that time at the castle. 

"What-" Tom said when he pulled away.

"Yeah I just- like- wanted to do that, like, one last time? Um."

"It doesn't have to be the last time," Tom said, gently grasped Greg's elbow.

"Yeah uh, I kinda think it does," Greg said, pressed his lips tight together, shrugged and made his eyes go wide. The elevator stopped. Tom looked over to the door, then up at Greg again. He cleared his throat.

"Well. Okay. See you at work, Greg."

"See you, Tom."

He walked out the elevator, dragging his suitcase behind him. When he got to the front door, he turned back, but the elevator doors had already closed.


	10. Chapter 10

The thing about Greg was he was really hard to read. His default was an expression of blank bewilderment. It was why his little machinations and schemes always took Tom completely by surprise, every time. It was like a curtain twitching in a house that had been abandoned for thirty years. Of course Tom had, over the course of their friendship, and that was really what it had become, become privy to a handful of other expressions, a mild smile, sweetly dimpled; wide-eyed panic; and of course, that one time, more than a year ago, open mouthed pleasure, but uh, overall, the guy was about as facially mobile as a Kardashian. 

So when he told Greg he and Shiv were separating, it was impossible to know what he was thinking.

Looking back, Tom had been insane to think he would have been able to carry on a full on affair with his PA while being married to Shiv Roy. Even not having affairs but having to carry the knowledge she was sleeping with other people, maybe even _preferred_ to sleep with other people, knowing the woman he loved, the woman who had married him, din't want him like that, didn't want him like she wanted some... some edgy The Wonder Years reboot who had the audacity to show up to his fucking _wedding_ , or some idiot actor she met in a bar, or... He had tried to bear it, thought he would, but in the end, he couldn't. 

Which was why he had his Tumi luggage in one hand, Mondale on a leash in the other, and was standing outside the last person in New York City he truly considered a friend's door, trying and failing to keep his voice level while telling him his marriage was over.

Greg blinked, then hunched over, put long arms around him. Greg was a hugger. Very non Roy like in that regard. With the dog and the bag Tom couldn't really hug back, but he pressed his cheek into Greg's neck.

"Uh, come in."

Tom wheeled his bag in, let Mondale of the leash, and the dog started exploring, walking briskly through Greg's apartment, occasionally licking the floor or shoving his nose under a piece of furniture. 

"I wasn't really expecting to find you here," Tom said. "you Machiavellian piece of shit."

"I live here."

"I thought maybe you and your new best friend Kendall would have gone out to some bunker in Germany."

"No." Greg was stroking Mondale's head, and the dog's wagging tail made a tapping sound against the leg of Greg's coffee table.

"So, what happens to me?" Tom asked.

"Huh?"

"Taking down a man like Logan Roy won't happen without collateral damage. Did you tell Kendall I told you to get rid of those papers?"

"No," Greg said, quickly. "no, I didn't tell him. And he didn't ask, either. Dude, you're like, your name is out of this."

"I'm not sure it's all that easy, Greg," Tom said. "it's a fairly easy thread to follow."

"Um... but it's what you wanted," Greg said. "remember? You wanted to do a press conference when you first found out, get it all out into the light."

Tom sighed big. "I should have. It would have been easier than the complete shitshow the last four months have been. I didn't have the balls." He slouched forward, holding his head in his hand, and Mondale, reading his mood, nosed at him until he petted him. 

Greg got up, came back with two beers, and Tom gratefully accepted, immediately put the bottle to his mouth. He preferred a G&T, but right now he'd drink a glass of Roman Roy's piss if it had alcohol in it.

"So uh, you and Shiv?"

Tom smiled unhappily. "Dunzo."

"I'm sorry, man."

"So am I. Ha ha. Nothing worked out like I wanted it to." He leaned back. "It's not fair. I found the perfect woman. She's beautiful, she's smart, she's accomplished, she's part of this great American dynasty. And I had the perfect wedding."

"Yeah," Greg said. "it was nice."

"The castle, the flowers..."

"The cakes. Wow, they were really good. Remember those uh, hazelnut things?"

"All that, and I've still felt like shit for a full year."

"Man, I'm uh, I'm really sorry."

"Except when I'm with you," Tom said, glancing up at him. 

"Uh," Greg said, using a hand to stroke back his hair. 

"I always feel good when I'm with you," Tom said, not backing down. 

"Uh, cool."

Tom tapped his fingers against the arm rest. "I could use a place to crash for a while."

"Sure, uh, sure, man. The uh, the couch is pretty comfy."

* * *

Tom, of course, lost his job, and Logan personally told him to "fuck off back to the circus in your little car". Gerri, of all people, had wished him well and given him some leads. He hadn't followed up on them yet. Just for the moment he felt the most comfortable in his little housewifeish existence Chez Gregory. He cooked. He watched a lot of TV. He walked Mondale and taught him tricks. Greg spent a lot of time with Kendall, who was forcibly attempting to take over Waystar Royco, poaching allies, backed by Stewy Hosseini money. It was a total mess, but Tom felt strangely cut off from it all. He'd spent the entirety of his forties trying to be a real player in the Roy games and he'd done nothing but lose. It had made him miserable. In Greg's kitchen he watched a sixty year old woman built like a truck gently spoon ravioli filling over fresh pasta squares on his phone, and mimicked her as best as he could. That made him happy.

Later Greg sat with his legs on the table, eating the ravioli daintily, while they watched some reality programme on TV. 

* * *

Tom had a job interview for CBS and he was nervous, and when he was nervous he liked to keep busy, which is why he was dusting. Greg's cleaner came in once a week so there wasn't that much to dust but he managed to find some little nooks which were pretty grimy, tsking all the while. It was like he always said. You wanted a job done well, you had to do it yourself. He had taken Greg's books of their shelf (all eight of them) and ran a damp cloth over the surface, sighing with a mixture of disappointment and satisfaction when it came back grey. He grabbed the books to replace them, alphabetically this time, oh or maybe by color, when something fell out of one of them. Tom picked it up, and then he stared. The polaroid from the castle. In the picture he kissed Greg, leaning up, hands on his waist. 

He'd kept it.

He'd also written the date on it, which very much moved him for some reason. 

Tom replaced the photo in the book.

* * *

"How did it go?" Greg asked. Tom could smell food. He could very specifically smell takeaway pasta, which still - still! - was Greg's idea of a king's feast. 

Tom smiled. "They offered me the job. Apparently the interview was just a formality."

"That's great!" Greg grinned.

"Yeah, ah, yeah."

"I got, um, food? Like, either to like, comfort you, if it sucked, or to celebrate, if it went well, and now it's celebration food!"

Mondale walked around their feet, whined a little. He'd gotten really spoilt these weeks getting to constantly hang out with Tom and not be in the crate. Greg leaned down to rub his head. 

"Yeah. Yeah, it's time I rejoined the real world," Tom sighed, walked over to the couch and started opening the takeaway boxes. 

"Um, yeah, like, maybe I shouldn't tell you? But if uh, if it hadn't worked out, like, Ken wanted to offer you a role in, um, like, at Waystar. Now that he's um, the director."

"What?" Tom frowned. "Kendall?"

"Uh huh"

"Don't they all hate me? Why would Kendall offer his sister's ex husband a job?"

There was an awkward silence. "Because I asked him to?"

Tom laughed, reached over and patted his knee. "Oh, Greg, Greg. Thank you. I appreciate the sentiment. What was the role? Your PA?"

"Heh. That would have been something."

"Yeah, aha. Well, um, someone else will have to get your coffees." He circled his fork in the linguini. "I guess I should look for somewhere else to live. Stop taking advantage of your hospitality and inability to say no."

"What? Uh, like, I mean, no, I uh, yeah I mean if you wanna move on, but it's nice having you around! You and uh, you and this guy," he said, slipping a piece of chicken to Mondale who was staring unblinkingly at them while they ate. 

Tom grimaced, then put his food down. "So aah. Hey, Greg."

"Mm hmm?"

"Remember, you remember, the night we came back from Scotland?"

There was a silence. "Mm hmm" Greg said, noncommittally.

"I asked Shiv if we should just call it off."

"What?"

"Yeah, I like, I floated the idea. Like just, not get married, you know."

"Oh?"

"She thought I was mad at her for not coming along to Scotland, for not wanting to take part in the planning. She said just because she didn't give a shit about logistics didn't mean she didn't give a shit about me. I mean, we made up."

"Yeah uh obviously."

Tom looked at Greg, and Greg put his plate down too. 

"I think part of me hoped she'd say yeah, let's call it off. A very small and stupid part of me. The part of me that wanted to get in the elevator and go after you."

Greg scratched his face. "I uh. I made the driver wait for like fifteen minutes. Just in case. You did."

Tom put a hand on Greg's face and directed it towards him, and Greg looked at him with half-lidded eyes and a very mild smile, and he tasted like chicken linguini.

*

The second time Tom got married, there weren't flowers, gift bags, a castle with secret passageways, or antique cutlery. It was just him and Greg at City Hall, Tom's friend Jonas and Greg's friend Angela were there as witnesses, and afterwards they went out to eat. 

It was perfect.


End file.
